


A Kiss With a Fist

by theprydonian_archivist



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, Dark, Discipline, Dom/sub, Episode: s03e12 The Sound of Drums, Episode: s03e13 Last of the Time Lords, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, S&M, Sex, Torture, Year That Never Was
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2010-12-08
Packaged: 2018-07-15 01:11:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7199387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprydonian_archivist/pseuds/theprydonian_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Saxon had managed to fish 10.5 out of his parallel universe and into his own?  That's right - porn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss With a Fist

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know what to do with this. Chapters might ensue.
> 
> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Prydonian](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Prydonian). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [The Prydonian collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/theprydonian/profile).

It really was a masterpiece of design, when you got right down to it.  Built in a matter of months from bits of 21st Century Earth, it was worlds beyond human technology, and it looked _good_.  He had to admit that.  To reduce the Lazerus technology down in size enough to fit in the shaft _and_ install the laser?  That was _sublime_. 

He was getting a rather good look at the weapon now, in fact.  Bound, gagged, stretched out fully across the Master's obscenely luxurious bed, he couldn't elp but state at it.  It pointed directly at his throat, and nowhere did he see even the hint of a safety.

But that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?

It was longer than his own, perhaps ten inches, and thicker around.  He could tell from the way the Master held it that it was heavy, possibly even weighted.  That _was_ something he’d do – weight the damn thing, turn it into a bludgeoning weapon on top of everything else.  

“Do you like it?” the Master asked, dropping the tip of his screwdriver to rest against the base of the Doctor’s throat.  “ _I_ like it.  Lucy likes it.  Much better than _sonic_.”  He threw his head back and laughed, then straightened up, standing over his bound captive.  As always he was impeccably dressed, his tailored suit freshly ironed.  Today he’d added black gloves to the mix, flexing his fingers now and then just for the delicious creak of the leather.

The Doctor was, of course, unable to answer.  

“You’re lucky the Lazerus technology runs both ways,” the Master continued, sliding the tip of his screwdriver up the Doctor’s throat and along his jaw.  The metal was warm, and the Doctor suspected (his stomach churning uncomfortably) that it’d been recently used.  “I’ve got a few other surprises planned, as well.  I think you’ll really enjoy them.”

He stepped away from the bed and turned his attention to a second bound figure, this one lashed tight to a wooden dining room chair.  When the Doctor pulled his head up enough to get a look at him he had the uncomfortable sensation that he was looking into a mirror – and why not?  Essentially, the other man _was_ him.  Ten-point-five, in a manner of speaking.  The Master called him John Smith to avoid confusion.  

“I think _he’s_ already enjoying them,” the Master continued, circling around to the back of his chair and laying his hands on his captive’s shoulders.  The half-Time Lord shuddered and bit into his gag to hold back sounds of wanting.  He’d been drugged straight off – the Master wanted him entirely compliant and didn’t want to bother with the task of breaking him.  This particular anomaly shared the Doctor’s memories, it was true, but he had a bit more spirit in him, and the Master didn’t plan on keeping him long-term – best to synthetically subdue him and make him live with the shame of his forced submission until the Master tired of him and killed him.

This particular brew had the added side-effect of functioning as a potent aphrodisiac.  It’d been administered with Time Lord biology in mind, a dose just high enough to give one a pleasant buzz, but Ten-Point-Five was half human with a single heart.  The injection had hit him like a sack of bricks.  The Master had tied him up before administering the drug, and hadn’t touched him since; all the same his erection throbbed mercilessly against his stomach, and he whimpered a continual string of muffled syllables from under his gag.  

The Doctor could hardly take his eyes off of him.  That would be _him_ in an hour or so, he was sure of it.  The Master did love his games.

“What do you think – should I let him off?” the Master asked, crossing the floor to stand beside Ten-Point-Five’s chair.  He laid a gloved hand on his shoulder, and the man arched his body into the touch as well as he could, straining against his bonds.  A drop of pre-come trickled slowly down his cock, and he bit down on the fabric stuffed between his lips.

The Doctor squirmed, toes curling as he struggled against the arousal simmering slowly through him.  He hadn’t been drugged, still had some control over his bodily functions, but it was maddeningly difficult to remain calm under such circumstances.  The Master seemed unruffled, and the Doctor thought wryly that this was just another variant of the games they’d played as boys.  The goal of this one was, of course, to get the other hard first without touching any sensitive bits.  The Master was _cheating_ this time.  Not that the Doctor had ever been particularly good at the game.

The Master feigned a yawn.  “Such a bore, talking to myself.  I suppose that’s my fault, though.  Let me see – which yammering idiot am I most able to tolerate?  The Doctor or his clone?”  He snaked a hand around to the catch locking Ten-Point-Five’s gag in place, flashing the Doctor a wicked smile.

Ten-Point-Five started begging as soon as the gag was loosed.  He had head mobility back now and used it to nuzzle against the Master’s palm, grasping for his fingers with his lips, willing to do _anything_ for release.  He couldn’t even form coherent sentences – just a string of words and sounds and, occasionally, the Master’s name.

The Doctor had no hope of winning this round.  From the moment his clone whimpered his first ‘please’, hot spikes of want flooded through him, pooling in his belly and setting his nerves on fire.  He flexed his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut, but that only made it worse; his mind filled in for what he couldn’t see, presenting him with dozens of delicious scenarios.  

The Master wasn’t about to let him get away with _not_ watching.  He returned to the bedside, and the Doctor felt a twinge of smug satisfaction when he noticed the faint outline of his cock pressing against the sleek fabric of his trousers.  So, a _tie_.  That was good enough for him.  

The Master undid the locks keeping his wrists chained and hauled him up by his still-linked cuffs, forcing him to stumble to his feet.  He made a noise of protest, and the Master backhanded him, the screwdriver still curled beneath his fingers.  It _was_ weighted and the Doctor reeled, blood rising to the short gash it’d had nicked into him.

“I shouldn’t have to remind you of your place,” the Master said, his voice low and soothing as he brushed the speck of blood away with his thumb.  “Good boys deserve rewards.  Bad boys are punished.  You don’t want to be punished, do you?”

The Doctor didn’t resist this time as the Master led him to stand in front of his clone, close enough that he could smell him, see the beads of sweat trickling down his skin.  His cock gave a sympathetic twitch at his clone’s current predicament.  Ten-Point-Five bucked futilely against his bonds, worrying his lip between his teeth.

The Master forced him to his knees with a hand on his shoulder and the screwdriver pointed at the back of his head.  “John Smith has been a good boy.  He knows his Master,” he purred.  “John Smith deserves a little something, don’t you think?  Why don’t you give it to him?  Go on – play nice.”  He twitched the Doctor’s gag open and let the damp material drop between his captive’s thighs.

Ten-Point-Five gave a strained moan, eyes darting wildly between the two Time Lords.  His lips formed the word ‘please’, but he seemed unable to speak coherently; he licked his lips and thrust against his bonds again, chest heaving.  

“Don’t do this,” the Doctor gasped, risking another beating.  “He doesn’t belong here – let him go.  You’ve got paradoxes inside paradoxes-“

The Master struck him again, open-palmed, and circled around to stand beside Ten-Point-Five.  He pressed the tip of his screwdriver against the clone’s temple and held his head still with a fist in his hair; his thumb hovered ominously over the activation switch.  “Stop talking and start sucking your clone’s cock or I’ll burn him to cinders.”

It wasn’t an idle threat.  The Master might hesitate in actually killing the Doctor, but his clone was fair game.  He was a mere diversion, subject to his captor’s every whim, and it would be well within the scope of the Master’s cruelty to kill him just to prove a point.  Indeed, the Doctor felt like compliance would only put off the inevitable – but he couldn’t sit idle and let murder happen right in front of him when he at least had the capability to delay it.

He shuffled forward on his knees, head bent, all too aware of the two sets of eyes boring into him: one pair full of malice, the other, lust.  The closer he got to his double, the more fascinated he became with tiny differences: the slowness of his pulse in comparison to his own double-beat; the salty tang of his scent, so different from the sweetness of a Time Lord’s; the tracery of nicks and scars he’d gathered up already, marks that would never heal on a body that would never regenerate.  He had a few small, dark bruises on the insides of his thighs, and the Doctor realized with a sudden flush of heat that they might’ve been left there by Rose.

The Master rapped his screwdriver on the corner of the chair impatiently, then pressed it to Ten-Point-Five’s throat.  “Get on with it, before I start burning off layers of skin.”

The Doctor closed the last few inches on hands and knees, bound hands supporting him as he found a comfortable position between his double’s legs.  The Master’s breath caught audibly, and he couldn’t suppress a quick, nervous smirk.  Make it a game, that was always the way – make it a game and play it well, and he might have a chance of saving his clone’s life.  The Master was much less likely to dispose of perfectly good entertainment.

He flicked his tongue out to catch a drop of pre-come as it trickled down Ten-Point-Five’s cock, then twisted his head to run his lips along the full length of him.  His double’s whimpers rose to another crescendo of begging accompanied by the scratch of nails on the wooden sides of the chair and the Doctor, feeling both compassionate and genuinely curious, took the rest of him into his mouth.

And oh, _oh_ , he could _taste_ her suddenly, the faint honey-salt of her impregnating every inch of his double’s flesh, imperceptible to a human, but blindingly clear to him.  Sense-memory threw his composure and he _moaned_ around his double’s cock, digging his fingers into the plush carpet.  It didn’t matter that he was going down on another man – all he could think about was _her_ , their brief trysts against the TARDIS’s console or in the kitchen or in her room when Jackie wasn’t around, the way he’d _needed_ her so suddenly and unexpectedly.  

He pulled Ten-Point-Five to the back of his throat and swallowed, nearly gagging himself in desperation for that little taste of Rose.  His double’s hoarse cries hardly reached him, so entrenched in his memories of Rose was he.  Even the Master’s rough breathing and noises of encouragement seemed miles away.

Was she here, aboard this ship?  But, no – his double would have kept her safe.  He was Time Lord-clever, and so was she.  _Oh, Rassilon, let her be safe._

Bitterness and jealousy mingled with arousal and desire a fear, and it was all suddenly too much to bear.  He pulled away with a cough, defiant once more, but the pressure of his tongue was the last touch necessary; Ten-Point-Five came with a silent cry, cock twitching in the empty air as he lost himself across the Doctor’s upturned face.  The Master laughed, an ugly, crazed sound, and pulled his screwdriver away from Ten-Point-Five’s neck.  The end had burned three circles into his skin, right at the crook between his shoulder and throat.

“Oh, wonderful job,” he said, prowling towards the Doctor.  “What was it like, sucking yourself off?”  He wiped a bit of come from the Doctor’s face and thrust his sticky, gloved fingers between Ten-Point-Five’s still-parted lips.  

“Let him go,” the Doctor repeated.  “Drop him back where he came from.  He’s no threat to you-“

The Master wheeled and burned a small crater jut beside the Doctor’s left knee.  The Doctor scrabbled backwards, but cuffed and kneeling there was little he could do to escape; the Master, his wrath inflamed further by the Doctor’s feeble attempt at running from him stormed forward and lashed the red-hot end of his screwdriver across his face, leaving a long welt from cheek to cheek.

“Did I just hear you suggest that I might have thought at some point that _either one of you_ was some sort of _threat_?” he snapped, raising the screwdriver again.  The Doctor bowed his head and gasped out an apology, struck to subservience by the sheer force and suddenness of the Master’s rage, but it was too little, too late.  The Master hauled him upright by his hair and tossed him bodily over the edge of the bed, his back facing out, face ground into the silk sheets by one gloved hand.

The screwdriver came down again and again across his back, its scalding tip scoring red lines from shoulder to shoulder, across his hips, in stripes down his spine.  The Master had been practicing - he wielded the implement like a lash despite its size and shape, striking with just enough force to send the hot, blunt edge through skin and enough finesse to land the marks exactly where he wanted them.  

The beating went on and on, and eventually the Doctor could no longer hear Ten-Point-Five’s panicked objections (for he could see perfectly the damage being done); eventually he heard nothing at all but metal sinking into flesh, felt nothing but the sear of each fresh strike and the blood trickling down his back and sides; smelled nothing but his own burning flesh.  Even the smear of come beneath his cheek, the pull of the Master’s fingers in his hair became nothing.

The Master brought his screwdriver down once more against the back of his head, and he knew nothing at all.


End file.
